


beyond this place of wrath and tears

by clovenhooves



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, Baseball bats, Gun Violence, Molotov Cocktails, Other, ancom uses they/them, everyone dies, post-centricide, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25215886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clovenhooves/pseuds/clovenhooves
Summary: They look so beautiful like this. Commie loves it when Ancom is in their element - “bashing the fash,” as they would say, eager and full of revolutionary energy. Commie had to admit it - while the anarchist’s understanding of theory was subpar at best, they were a master of direct action. And there was nothing more direct than the systematic destruction of the enemies to a leftist revolution.It was actually Ancom’s idea to try and initiate such an act once the dust of the Centricide settled. They had brought it up one idyllic summer afternoon - a day where the sun was shining, the air was cool, and the fire of rebellion raged deep within the hearts of both communists. Commie had seized the opportunity to guide Ancom into a preferable direction, to harness that rage into something productive. He smiles fondly at the memory, reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a list. Getting the pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, he makes off Hoppean’s name in a smooth, dark line.---Commie and Ancom have fun organizing a leftist revolution. Commie promises he definitely, certainly, will not kill the anarchists this time. Commie is lying.
Relationships: Commie/Ancom, leftist unity - Relationship
Comments: 26
Kudos: 101





	beyond this place of wrath and tears

There’s a loud and heavy sound as Ancom’s bat whizzes through the air, and a sickening sort of  _ crunch _ when it makes contact with the side of Hoppean’s head. The rightist crumples to the ground, sputtering. The little anarchist stumbles forward, their body still caught in the momentum. Ancom quickly rights themself and, with a quick ferocity, brings down a black combat boot onto the man’s head. A wet sound echoes through the room, and Hoppean is still. 

Commie waits for Ancom to move out of the way before taking the Tokarev out of his jacket and firing a single shot square in the middle of Hoppean’s chest. Ancom looks up eagerly at him, a manic glint in their green eyes as the spray of red cascading across the room splashes droplets on their black hoodie. A menagerie of colors blending together, black and red and green like the ideologies they represent. 

They look so beautiful like this. Commie loves it when Ancom is in their element - “bashing the fash,” as they would say, eager and full of revolutionary energy. Commie had to admit it - while the anarchist’s understanding of theory was subpar at best, they were a master of direct action. And there was nothing more direct than the systematic destruction of the enemies to a leftist revolution.

It was actually Ancom’s idea to try and initiate such an act once the dust of the Centricide settled. They had brought it up one idyllic summer afternoon - a day where the sun was shining, the air was cool, and the fire of rebellion raged deep within the hearts of both communists. Commie had seized the opportunity to guide Ancom into a preferable direction, to harness that rage into something productive. He smiles fondly at the memory, reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a list. Getting the pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, he makes off Hoppean’s name in a smooth, dark line. 

“How many does that leave?” asks Ancom, catching their breath. 

Commie glances over the list. So far, the two had eliminated the majority of the right-wingers and hyper-conservatives among them, from Christian Conservative to Minarchist to Anfash to, now, Hoppean. He tuts; there were still so many more.

“Too many to count, comrade. We must keep moving.” He stuffs the list back into his pocket and, with an authoritative tilt of his head, herds Ancom out of the alley. 

* * *

Commie was rather pleased with how easily this execution was pulled off; Nazi had given them word on his intent to take some contradictory birthright trip to Israel, and so Commie and Ancom simply followed his car to the airport and cornered him in the bathroom before his plane took off. 

Bang, whack, stomp, and the fascist was a bloody mess on the floor. Quite anticlimactic, really, for the embodiment of white identitarianism to go down in such an embarrassingly quick fashion. 

After dragging the body into an unoccupied bathroom stall for some janitor or hapless guest to discover later, the leftists took the time to clean themselves up before heading out to make their escape. Commie had escaped most of the carnage by keeping his distance by the door, keeping an ear perked in case anyone began to approach the restroom. Ancom felt safe with his presence by the door; they knew the authoritarian, six-foot-four in boots, could snap a man’s neck like a toothpick with his bare hands. They were much more roughed up - though not from any action on Nazi’s part, but rather from being a bit too enthusiastic with their fash-bashing. 

They stood in the mirror, flipping their tattered and bloodstained hood down to examine their messy tangle of dark hair. They had to stand on their tip-toes in order to get a view of the blood spatter along the bottom hem of their hoodie - thankfully, they had it zipped up, so it was easy to take it off and tie it around their waist to disguise it. Under their hoodie was a ratty black t-shirt, marred with holes and ripped seams held together by an uncomfortable-looking assortment of safety pins. Their skinny pale arms held the edge of the sink as their free hand went to turn on the water, so that they could splash it into their face. 

Commie tutted. “You’re going to make a mess. Do you want them to think we tried to drown ourselves after murdering the man in the stall?” 

Ancom pouted, looking in the back of the mirror to catch a glance at the authoritarian. “If anyone looks suspicious, it’s _ you _ . You look like you’re about to bomb the place. Unbutton the trench coat at least, dude.” 

Commie harrumphed, but undid the buttons of his coat regardless. 

Ancom walks beside him now as they make their way towards the airport exit, a heavy backpack slung over their shoulders to conceal their dented bat. “I still feel kinda bad about leaving his body in there. Some poor bastard is going to have to call the fuckin’ cops before mopping up all that blood,  _ and  _ I bet they aren’t even getting paid minimum wage.” 

Commie shrugs. “While the plight of your hypothetical worker is sad, we must remember that our actions serve greater good.” 

Ancom nods. “Sure. What do you think people are gonna say when they realize it’s Nazi?” They scoff. “Though I’m sure he wasn’t exactly going to receive a warm welcome in the ‘promised land’ either.” 

“I’m sure there’s going to be a great deal of outcry, yes.” Commie thinks for a moment, eyes scanning the crowds that mill around them. Aside from perhaps Commie’s archaic manner of dress, the two looked relatively inconspicuous. Nazi was probably embarking on this trip under an assumed alias, though once the police had a chance to examine his body it would become clear who he really was. “I think his followers will be very shaken once the news gets out.”

Ancom hums in agreement. “Where are we heading next?” 

“I think we shall catch a bus to Ancapistan. Hoppean had a map of the area in his pocket.” Commie reaches into his coat and retrieves a neatly folded flyer, handing it off to the shorter one. He watches as Ancom opens it, revealing a tacky neon-colored outline of the territory in the heart of the city. 

“This looks like the fucking Chili’s kids’ menu,” they quip. 

“And that is exactly why it must be eliminated.” 

* * * 

“What in the goddamn  _ fuck _ do you think you’re doing?” 

_ Bang _ . 

Libertarian lay dead on the floor; they had managed to ambush the two in their mansion after a lengthy operation involving dubiously accented hackers and generous use of a Kalashnikov. 

Ancap, dressed in a silken nightgown that was probably worth more than one hundred years’ worth of salaries paid out those he employed, stood with his back against the wall of the rightists’ shared bedroom. They had gotten married “for tax purposes” shortly after the Centricide, and quite frankly, Commie couldn’t care less about whatever was going on between them. All he cared about was the putrid excuse for workers’ rights that festered in the region Ancap created. The gunshot Commie had fired off had missed as Ancap dodged with surprising energy for a man who had just jumped out of bed; a quick glance at the bedside table led Commie to the conclusion that the kulak was probably doing cocaine before he went to bed. He didn’t answer. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ancap shouted, one hand moving to the wall and flipping over a hidden panel. He pushed a large red button in the center of it. “You degenerate leftists just violated the NAP  _ so hard _ , I’m going to make you work in my smartphone cobalt mines until you’re nothing but a blip on the face of histo-”

_ Bang.  _

Ancap stumbles backwards as a heavy wave of scarlet seeps through his nightshirt. His face is bewildered, pale, the button he had pushed to usher in his bodyguards was rendered useless after Commie’s hacking, and besides, he and Ancom had already killed them all anyway. 

_ Bang. Bang.  _

After a few more shots Ancap crumples to the floor, adjacent to his tax-evasion-married lover. 

Ancom purses his lips. Commie looks at them; they’re pretending to examine a bloodstain on their bat. 

“Well...we did it. There goes Ancapistan.” Something in their voice sounds far away. 

“Something wrong, Anarkiddie? Did they hurt you?” Commie steps forward, wondering if one of those bastard bourgeois puppets managed to get in a shot or two during the initial confrontation. 

Ancom shrinks back. They shake their head, frowning. “No. It’s just...well, I thought Ancap was…” 

Commie frowns back. “Anarkiddie, did you think that you and the k...that you and the... _ capitalist _ were friends?” 

Ancom licks their lips. “Um. I just...well, we had these moments of...lib unity?” They shrug, offering a meek smile before their eyes drift to the bodies on the floor. “It was nice. We’d hang out, play cards, complain about the government. He’d sell me drugs sometimes.” They notice Commie’s gaze turn stern. “I mean- uh, also, I think they were gay?” 

Commie gives them a blank stare. “And?” 

Ancom shuffles, awkward. “Isn’t it wrong to kill people like me?” 

Commie laughs. He wraps a muscular arm around Ancom’s slender shoulders. “Anarkiddie! My comrade, if you actually read theory then you’d understand why this is necessary. These two may have been more than simple business partners, but their wealth makes them traitors to their fellow homosexual. Think, Ancom - when did Ancap ever use his gross amounts of wealth to help you? Did he ever offer to pay for your hormones? Did he reach out when you were homeless? He had the means to do both, and so much more. He was an enemy of your people.” 

Ancom nods, hesitant. “Yeah...I guess so.” They shake their head. “That guy was a real prick anyway.” 

“And there are plenty more where he came from!” Commie lets out a deep bark of laughter, clapping Ancom’s back. “Come, Anarkiddie. After next operation, I say we get drinks to recuperate,  _ da _ ?” 

“Only if I get to smoke.” Ancom was beginning to sound normal again. Commie relaxes a bit, a smile still brightening his scarred-up face. 

“I’m sure we can work something out, comrade.” 

* * *

If killing Nazi was almost insultingly easy, then killing the wackies felt like an outright joke. It was fitting, Commie figured. The so-called “Council of Wacky Ideologies” was housed in a Pizza Hut, of all places, at nine o’clock in the evening. They didn’t even bother to rent the place out. It was a matter as simple as walking in through the strip mall double-doors and letting Ancom hurl a Molotov cocktail into the dining room. 

Amidst the fire rapidly filling the pizza chain, Commie took up his usual position by the doors to pick off any targets (or would-be witnesses, for that matter - simple collateral damage, you see) from a distance in case they tried to escape. He let Ancom deal with finishing them off. The people weren’t as much of a concern as the ideologies; they could take quite a beating compared to the mortal citizens, and the fire and smoke alone wouldn’t be enough to make sure they stayed dead. 

Now, Commie raises his hand as Ancom backs a short, glowing man into a corner. Ancom pauses mid-swing, letting the bat come to a comically abrupt stop right before splitting Posadist’s head like a watermelon. 

“Let the bug-man go, Anarkiddie. He is fellow communist!” 

Posadist looks up at Ancom, antennae twitching curiously. As Ancom quirks their head to one side in confusion, Posadist takes their cue to scurry out the doors as Commie steps aside to let him escape. Ancom looks back to Commie. “You let me kill Anprim, isn’t he a leftist?” They have to shout a little over the chaos, sweat dripping over their eyes from the heat of the flames licking away at the prefabricated walls of the restaurant. Another victim of late capitalism, they think sullenly - shitty cardboard walls that can’t even stand a little arson. 

“Anarcho-Primitivist was an off-compass joke ideology,” Commie shouts back, letting the hand not clutching his pistol come up to remove his ushanka. Ancom needs to hurry up. This place felt like it was going to collapse under the combined pressure of melting plasticine and toxic compounds any second now. “Not true communist!” 

Ancom shrugs. “We still getting drinks after this?” 

* * *

The bar is quiet; it’s a slow day, but they decide to take the patio nonetheless. The place is a bit too bourgeois for Ancom’s comfort, with its glass tables and twinkling string lights, but it’s comfortable, and a welcome respite from all the hard work they had gotten up to. 

Ancom sits opposite Commie, and between them sit several discarded glasses. Ancom had taken it common themself to try out all the fruity mixed drinks this place had to offer, while Commie was seemingly perfectly content with downing glass after glass of White Russians. 

The conversation had lulled as the two became increasingly inebriated. Ancom, always nervous when the room went quiet, quickly takes stock of their pockets and pulls out their bounty - a crumpled-up joint, poorly rolled, most likely by themself. 

Commie tries not to roll his eyes. 

“Got a light?” perks up Ancom, to which Commie silently responds by producing a dull rusted Zippo from his pocket, emblazoned with a hammer and sickle, and lighting the end of the joint with a few flicks of his large, rough hands. “Thanks, man.” 

Ancom inhales deep, eyes closed, and when they open them again their emerald-green gaze is fuzzier, farther away. “I thought I ran out. I don’t know who I’m gonna get this shit from since we killed Ancap...maybe the other anarchists. They were always willing to share.” 

Commie gives them a quizzical look. “I thought you said anarchists laced your cannabis with fentanyl?” 

Ancom scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “Easy mistake, done it myself a million times. Sometimes they lace it with LSD.” They grin wickedly. “ _ That’s  _ a fun time.” 

Commie lets out a deep sigh, but doesn’t pursue the topic, instead taking a long sip from his glass. “You know Anarkiddie, the only reason why you pursue such bread and circuses is because you are inherently trapped by the chains of capitalism. Capitalism has sucked dry every aspect of genuine enjoyment from human existence. Once we abolish it, you will experience joy from hard work and accomplishment. There will be no need for such wasteful endeavors.” 

Ancom takes another long drag, shaking their head. “What’s the point of overthrowing society if I can’t even get high? How authoritarian of you,  _ comrade. _ ” The last word is thrown out in scorn, meaner than intended. Ancom is the kind of person to wear their heart on their sleeve as it is, but under the influence their true feelings tend to bubble to the surface with no barrier to stifle them. 

Commie just laughs. “Oh, Anarkiddie, you are so naive. It is quite cute. It is no wonder the other ideologies always took you for such a wide-eyed idealist.” He reaches over, a bit unsteady on his feet, and pushes back the anarchist’s hood to give their hair a ruffle. 

The sound of footsteps. Commie looks over to see their server returning with more drinks, until she stops in her tracks and redirects her focus to Ancom, who is unaware of her, instead indignantly lifting their hood back up. 

“Uh, sir? You can’t smoke in here,” she says. 

Ancom jerks up in their seat, almost too fast, nearly toppling over their chair. “For your information, I’m not a  _ sir _ . I’m not even  _ indoors _ !” They gesticulate to their surroundings, the fencing around the patio, the street beyond, the darkening sky. 

The server sighs. Clearly, this was not the first time she’d heard such a justification. “You’re on our property. You’re not allowed to smoke behind this fence.” 

Ancom lets out a hoarse laugh. Commie sees that mischievous glint in their eye, and can’t help but feel a warm glow of fondness in his chest. “Says who?” they croak, deliberately tapping on their joint so that the ash falls onto the table. 

“Says my  _ manager, _ ” she sneers. 

“You guys constructed this building on Chipewyan land anyway.” 

“Give us our drinks,” interjects Commie, already tiring of this petty display despite himself. “They will smoke wherever they please. We are paying to sit and drink,  _ da _ ? Are we not sitting and drinking?” 

“I’m going to get my manager,” the woman states, before setting down the drinks on the table anyway. Commie snorts; even in the face of such disrespect, the proletariat still cowers to the almighty dollar. The phrase  _ lambs to the slaughter _ pops into Commie’s drink-addled mind. 

“We’re  _ paying  _ for this?” Ancom asks, looking at all the glasses spread between them. “This is gonna cost like, two hundred bucks. I thought we were just gonna leave a tip and dip.” They let a dopey smile cross their face, unable to hold back a crossfaded giggle. 

“Yes. I do not want to attract more attention than is necessary, after Nazi and Pizza Hut incidents.” Commie produces a rather ostentatious wallet from his coat, genuine leather by the looks of it, dyed a putrid yellow. “I know the tricks of these capitalist dogs. As soon as they see this, we will be left alone.” He opens the wallet, flashing Ancom with a rather thick stack of hundred dollar bills. 

Ancom gawks. “Wh- Where the hell did you get  _ that _ from?” 

Commie shrugs, leaving the wallet on the table. “After we disposed of the kulaks in Ancapistan, I thought it only appropriate to seize their wealth and redistribute it to the working people.” 

Ancom gives him a blank stare, raising up his Piña Colada with comically buggy eyes. 

“...Us, Ancom.” 

Blink. Blink. Sip. 

“We’re the working people.” 

“Oh!” Ancom chokes on their drink in their enthusiasm, getting some of the cream to dribble down their chin. “Got it. Working people.” They eye the wallet again, then flick their gaze back into Commie’s ruby-red eyes. “Isn’t it kinda...hypocritical to hang onto all this? I can think of like, five people right now who don’t even have enough money for groceries.” They were starting to really slur their words now. 

Commie shakes his head. “Ancom, I am building communal fund for the people once we establish new society. A new society needs funds,  _ da _ ? Wasn’t that the fault of your people in Makhnovia and elsewhere? A lack of proper infrastructure?” 

Commie is saying a lot of things, throwing a lot of words at Ancom’s head, but everything seems to land against a soft and fuzzy barrier. All that Ancom knew was that Commie was very smart, and knew what he was talking about, and also very,  _ very  _ handsome in this lighting. So they simply nod along, giving the authoritarian a sluggish thumbs-up before taking another drag off their joint. 

The manager comes and goes, more drinks are had, the conversation gets less and less intelligible until Ancom is a barely conscious mess face-down on the table. Commie takes this as the cue to leave a moderately sized stack of bills next to their head before hoisting their skinny frame over his shoulders and carrying them out of the patio. Commie is pretty intoxicated himself, but that’s never stopped him from getting things done. He’s got a stronger stomach than most already, and being what is essentially the walking embodiment of a Soviet-era Russian has left his body resilient even in the face of near toxic levels of alcohol. 

He drives them to the apartment he currently calls home, letting Ancom nap in the passenger’s seat. He pulls into a nondescript parking spot close to the front, and looks to his right, viewing Ancom’s sleeping form. He savors the sight:

Ancom. Those pretty green eyes hidden behind heavy eyelids. Messy mop of hair cascading over their face, hood askew, arms splayed out like a sleeping tomcat. He smiles with genuine fondness before reaching out an arm to rouse the anarchist with a strong tug on the shoulder. 

“Huhhhwhaat?” is Ancom’s sluggish reply, the words barely escaping their slackened jaw. Drool drips down their neck. 

“We are at my current residence. You will come inside and sleep this off, so that we can accomplish more productive work tomorrow.” Commie’s words are commanding and direct; it is clearly an order, not a suggestion. Not like Ancom is in any state to protest as it is, eyes already fluttering back closed. Commie shakes them again to no avail, leading him to exit the car and walk around the other side so he can open the door towards Ancom’s seat. 

“Ancom, you will follow me inside my apartment or I will carry you there.” Commie’s voice is that of a disappointed father - stern and steadfast with a definite hint of caring under the hard exterior. 

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Ancom seems to perk up at this, eyes shooting open with comical alertness given their current state. “Piggy back ride? Woooooooo!” 

Commie sighs, and reaches over to unbuckle Ancom’s seat belt. After giving the anarchist a few moments to get out themself, he reaches the upper half of his body into the car to grab them by their waist and throw them over their shoulder in one fluid motion. He steps away from the car, using a foot to push the door closed, and begins to ascend the stairs. 

“Commie...Commieeeeeee…” slurs Ancom, arms coming up to beat uselessly against the authoritarian’s back. “Where we goin’?...’M not a stupid kid, put me down…” 

“You were given a chance to come up, and you declined. So I took it upon myself to make sure you were alright,” Commie replies. It is a short walk to his room, anyway, and it’s easy to take the key from his pocket and open the door to let the two of them inside while the air becomes muddled with Ancom’s attempts at a response. 

“Shh...blughhh....b-but you didn’ even...hnnn…” Ancom’s arms go limp against Commie before the latter drops them onto his couch. It’s a rather uncomfortable faux-leather piece that came with the room, but to Ancom, Commie practically gave them the Taj Mahal. They quickly sprawl all over it, spreading out their skinny frame until they’ve taken up every inch of room they possibly could. 

Commie looks down at them. A pang of pity makes itself known in his chest. “You will stay here and sleep off your intoxication. You should have eaten something while you were there.” 

Ancom shakes their head, hood falling over their eyes. “Nothin’...veggie...tarian…” Suddenly they perk up again, hood falling off their head. “Oh! I was gonna make a joke ‘bout you...drinking those drinks...the White Russians…’cause you’re a white Russian...I thought it was so funny, Tankie…” They lay back down, and redirect their gaze towards Commie looming above them. 

Commie notices something in Ancom’s expression shift. Their eyes look a little more glassy, and the drunken heat already in their cheeks flushes darker into something else. Their hands come up, shaky, and make little grabby motions towards Commie. 

“Come ‘ere,” they mumble. Commie humors them, leaning forward so that Ancom can cup his face in their hands. The fur-lined flaps of Commie’s ushanka puff out comically as they slide their hands underneath. “Your eyes…” They trail off, and that dopey smile returns, part blackout drunk, part stoned off their ass. “They’re like...little…” Their eyes narrow. They’re struggling to think of the right word. “Little red gems” is what they settle on, and Commie doesn’t bother to correct them, a similar flush rising in his own cheeks. 

They are both quiet for a bit. The air is charged with something stifling and warm, and yet strangely exciting. Commie licks his lips, waiting for Ancom to break the distance, break the silence, do  _ something _ . This feeling was too electrifiing to linger on. 

“Commie…” Ancom mutters. 

“What? What is it, Ancom?”

“I...I think I…” 

“You...what?” 

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” 

And Ancom proceeds to puke all over Commie’s nicest winter jacket. 

* * *

Ancom awakes to the smell of sizzling bacon, undercut by the harsh citrus sting of disinfectant sloppily covered up with store brand air freshener. They sit up -- too fast, evidently, as a thundercrack of pain booms through their head, causing the anarchist to reflexively duck back onto the harsh but welcome embrace of Commie’s couch. They groan. 

“Awake already,  _ kotenok _ ?” comes Commie’s voice from across the room. Ancom looks to see the authoritarian standing in front of a stove within his modest kitchenette. “Ah, I believe it is only...two o’clock in afternoon.” 

Ancom rubs their head, not bothering to try and sit up again. “Ugh...I should still be in bed right now. Got anything for a hangover?” They sniff the air before letting out a dramaticized  _ ew _ . “Or at least anything not made from the flesh of innocent sentient creatures?” 

Ancom closes their eyes, taking one of Commie’s scratchy throw pillows and pushing it over their face. They hear Commie’s heavy footsteps, followed by the sound of something made of glass being set down on the coffee table next to them. Up close like this, Ancom can catch the scent of coffee and smoke, even through the pillow. 

His voice comes through, muffled. “It is highly improbable that a dictatorship of the proletariat will be sustained wholly off mescaline and Soylent. But regardless of that, I cut some fruit for you. Something marginally nutritious to clear your head.” 

Ancom throws the pillow across the room and sits up, slower this time. On the table sits an intricate glass bowl, filled with glistening sliced melons and grapes plucked fresh from the vine. They roll their eyes, but begrudgingly take a grape from the bowl and pop it into their mouth. “Maybe I  _ want  _ to fry my brain. That’s my right,” they mumble, swallowing. 

Commie sits on the edge of the couch. It is only now that Ancom notices that he isn’t wearing his maroon jacket. “Hey, uh,” they say in between grapes, “where’s your coat?” 

“In wash,” Commie responds cooly. 

“Why’s that?” 

“It was covered in your vomit, and generous amounts of blood and gasoline. Rather terrible smell.” 

“Gasoline?” 

“Ah, last night after you fell asleep I liquidated the anarchists.” Ancom’s eyes slowly widen as Commie continues speaking, but he goes on regardless. “I burned down the house they were squatting in - an easy job even without the extra ammunition, but I just wanted to ensure that all bases were covered. Similar to pizza parlour.” 

“You…?” Ancom shakes his head, dropping the thick block of cantaloupe in his hand. “You…” They can’t bring themself to say it. 

“Oh, I also put your sweatshirt in wash as well. The thing was so matted with blood and grease that it nearly was able to stand up on its own.” Commie stands up, turning towards the kitchen. “Ah! My breakfast is burning.” 

“...you killed the anarchists?” 

Ancom’s voice is small. 

Commie quickly shuts off the stove, retrieving the burnt-up shrivels of meat from the pan. He  _ tsks _ , dismissive. “Ah, it is ruined. No matter, I will simply start agai--” 

He is cut off by Ancom springing forward and shoving him into the wall with enough force to knock his spice rack off the shelf, sending glass and clouds of paprika shooting across the tile. 

_“You killed the fucking anarchists!”_ Ancom shouts, and despite their height difference they are somehow able to look absolutely intimidating even as Commie glances down at them. Their eyes are set into a hard stare, green irises lit by an all-encompassing rage, and their mouth curls back into a furious snarl. Commie keeps a blank, calm expression, even as Ancom continues, punctuating each sentence with a hard pounding of their fists on his chest. “You _killed!_ The _fucking!_ _Anarchists!_ You said it wasn’t going to happen again, you backstabbing piece of shit!” 

Commie lets Ancom vent out their frustrations. He doesn’t protest even as Ancom stumbles backwards, hands balled up into fists, and asks where his bat is - instead he quietly informs them that he stored it safely in his car for them to retrieve later, and could they please quiet down before the neighbors hear? but Ancom isn’t having it, instead taking the paring knife he’d been using to cut fruit earlier that morning and pointing it right at him. The tip still drips with juice. 

Commie raises his hands in a “back off” gesture, shaking his head. “Ancom, you need to calm down. You’re taking this way out of proportion--”

_ “When?”  _ hisses Ancom, cutting him off. They take a step forward. Commie takes a step forward himself, closing the distance between them. 

“When what?” 

“When exactly did you decide it was cool to go out and kill all my friends?” 

Commie shakes his head. “Anarkiddie--”

_ “Don’t fucking call me that!”  _

A sigh. “Ancom. You must be reasonable. Most of your... _ friends _ would be completely ineffective at rebuilding society, and may in fact have been a detriment. Pure anarchy is fine for direct action, yes. But think of those such as Queer Anarchism - we cannot build a new world off a foundation of pure identity politics!” 

“What about Anarcho-Mutualist? Or Anarcho-Pacifism?” Ancom attempts to interject, but Commie continues: 

“The leftists that were sympathetic to our cause have been left alive to continue the revolution in their parts of the city. I have been in constant contact with Maoist, Castroist, Trotskyist, and yes, even Posadist in the past weeks. Everything is going according to plan, which you would be privy to if you ever bothered to be sober enough to understand what was even happening around you!” 

Ancom balks, then raises the knife up to Commie, the tip poking through his thin work shirt. “Those are all just authoritarians like you!” 

“Ancom, why do you think I made the choice to get rid of the dissidents with  _ you _ , specifically?” Commie asks, voice steady. When Ancom doesn’t answer, he continues. “Out of all the strong-willed anarchists and free spirits that inhabit your quadrant,  _ you _ are the only one that is committed to a true cause that is not pure chaos and hedonism. It was decided among my peers that you would be the...ah, let’s call it  _ representative  _ of the libertarian left. You are the only one with a coherent political and economic framework from which to build a new society from.” 

Ancom visibly shrinks, shoulders slumping, but doesn’t release their grip on the knife. 

Commie sighs. He cautiously raises a hand, and when Ancom doesn’t react, lightly ruffles his fingers through the anarchist’s hair. “Ancom,” he says, voice soft, “I only want the best for you. You know that, don’t you?” 

Ancom licks their lips. Their eyes are clouded with indecision, but ultimately they drop the knife, letting it clatter to the floor. Commie opens his arms, and Ancom takes him up in an embrace, resting their head on the authoritarian’s chest. 

“‘M sorry,” they mumble, voice breaking. “I just...I’ve always had the anarchists around. It’s gonna be weird building a new society without them here.” 

Commie keeps his arms wrapped around the smaller ideology. “I understand,  _ kotenok _ . But think about it - think of all the new and innovative ideologies that will be thought of in this new world we are building. Ideologies that will be kind-hearted, hard-working communists. You will never have to worry about you or your people being mistreated ever again.” 

Ancom relaxes into Commie’s grip. The two of them have had such a bloody and complicated past - sometimes working alongside each other, sometimes at each other’s throats. But Commie was right, they realized, breathing in the taller man’s comforting scent. They were more compatible than not, and if maintaining leftist unity meant sacrificing a few dissidents, then maybe it would all be worth it in the end. As long as they had each other. 

They are silent for a few moments, only listening to each other’s breathing. This close, Commie can feel Ancom’s fluttering heartbeat against his own chest. 

“Commie, I-” Ancom starts, before being cut off by the  _ ding!  _ from the washing machine. And just like that, the moment is broken. Commie pries Ancom off his chest and starts for the laundry room, only a few strides away within the small apartment. Ancom watches as he opens the top of the washing machine. 

“Ah! Our overclothes are clean. Come, Ancom, help me hang them up to dry.” 

Ancom walks over to him, frowning. “I usually just stick my hoodie in the dryer and call it a day.” 

Commie chuckles. “You will maintain a much neater and wrinkle-free result when they are air-dried! And besides, Anarkiddie, it will teach you patience to sit here and wait for your sweatshirt. In the meantime, I am happy to read you theory!” He smiles, even as Ancom rolls their eyes. “I think Frederick Engles’s  _ On Authority  _ would be a relevant place to start,  _ da? _ ” 

Ancom opens their mouth to start complaining, and Commie isn’t even listening. Instead he’s focusing on this - this moment, the little anarchist so full of emotion and opinions, bony arms lowering to retrieve their hoodie from the depths of the wash. He tries to memorize it all - the curve of Ancom’s round, childish face, their angelic curls of brown hair, the chipped black nail polish marking their chewed-up fingernails. 

He looks, and tries to burn it all into his memory.  _ You can’t take a picture of this _ , something in his head says.  _ It’s already gone _ . 

* * *

Orange hellfire wicks away at the crumbling visage of their city. Buildings fall and debris rains down upon the scrambling masses of civilians - those who weren’t already ashen silhouettes on the sides of houses, or globs of meat and blood on the road. The intense heat makes the sky warp and shimmer, a beautiful mirage of gold and maroon like a tropical sunset rising high into the horizon. 

Atop the grassy knoll, Commie wraps his arm around Ancom as the mushroom cloud rises higher and higher into the stratosphere. They are sitting down in a field of withering yellow flowers, their delicate petals shriveling from the wave of radioactive heat passing over them. 

They will survive this. They have been through much worse. Most of the humans will die, but the resilient few who remain will be able to begin anew from the rubble that once was this bustling capitalist slum. Ancom leans their head on Commie’s shoulder. 

“All of these flowers are gonna die,” they mumble. Commie nods gravely. 

“But think of the beauty of this place,” Commie says. His fingers dig into the soft dirt underneath them. “All of the man-made terrors that have been wrought upon this land will be wiped clean. All will be left is fertile earth, and clear flowing water.” 

Ancom smiles. “That sounds really nice.” They think for a second, then add, “We become what we behold.” 

Commie purses his lips. 

“Posadist is dead, isn’t he?” 

Commie nods. “It was part of plan. He understood what his fate was.” In the heart of the city, where the dissolved remnants of Ancapistan lie, the apocalyptic communist had one final trick up his sleeve - as soon as Commie had given him the okay, Posadist deployed the recreational nuke hidden deep within Ancap’s bunker, and what once was a haven for free market capitalism became ground zero for the complete destruction of the city and all who lived in it. 

Commie stands up, leaving Ancom on the ground, still staring off at the explosion. They are silent for a while. Ancom looks down at the side of the hill where the field of yellow flowers continues, gently sloping into the valley below. 

“The flowers are beautiful,” they remark, slumping their shoulders. “It’s a shame.” 

Commie steps back and slowly removes the Tokarev from his jacket, examining it. Eight chambers, six empty. Two rounds. Muffled by the woosh of toxic air blasting over their heads, he readies the weapon. He takes a deep breath, and aims it squarely at the back of Ancom’s head. His heart is heavy. His hands shake. It’s hard to keep his aim steady, but he knows this is crucial. He doesn’t want the anarchist to suffer. 

“Tankie?” says Ancom after a long silence, causing Commie to jolt. But Ancom doesn’t turn around. 

“...Yes, Anarkiddie?” croaks Commie. His mouth is dry. 

“I love you.” 

Commie’s heart is pounding in his ears. “I- I love you too, comrade,” he mutters, keeping his finger squarely on the trigger. Not here. Not now. If Ancom turns around, he’s putting a bullet between their eyes. 

“No, Tankie…” Ancom chuckles, and it is a beautiful sound. Tears spring up in Commie’s eyes. His throat is closing up. “I mean...I love you, man. I really love you. Do you think...once this is all over with, and everything is okay again, we could...live together? Just you and me? I was thinking about what you said, and...I need you, Tankie. I really need you. We make a great team.” 

Commie takes a deep breath. It takes all of his energy to keep his voice steady. He cannot let any emotion seep through. “...Of course, Ancom. I think I would like that very much.” 

Even though he is staring at the back of Ancom’s head, he knows the anarchist is smiling. “Can we have a garden, Tankie? With flowers just like this?” Without looking, Ancom plucks a handful of the small flowers from the ground. They bring it up to their face, inhaling their fleeting scent. 

“Yes, comrade. Of course.” 

Commie takes a deep breath. He thinks of Maoist, and Trotskyist, and Castroist. He thinks of what they would say to him, what they would  _ do  _ to him if he failed to carry out this last task. He thinks of what awaits him as soon as this is all over with. 

“...Yes,” he says, voice low. “Just keep looking at the flowers.” 

Ancom raises their head to look down again into the valley. They sound the happiest they’ve been in a long time. 

_ Bang _ . 

It’s instant. It’s final. Commie is an excellent shot, and point-blank like this, he knows Ancom didn’t even know what hit them. Blood spatters onto the dying yellow petals as Commie’s gun thuds onto the soft earth. The flowers Ancom were holding fall limp to the ground. They slump forward, and fall onto their side. 

Commie walks over to the body, and crouches down to gently turn them onto their back. He lifts their hood up over their forehead, covering the exit wound. Like this, the anarchist looked as though they were merely taking a nap. They even still had that sweet little smile on their face. They looked like they were having the most wonderful dream. 

Commie can’t hold it back, now that there is no one there to see him. He lets the tears well up in his eyes and drop onto Ancom’s face. He did not sob, or cry out, but instead sat there, silently letting the waves of emotion come over him. 

“I am sorry,  _ kotenok.” _

He sits there with the body, staring off at the burning city in the distance. 

He reaches over Ancom to pick up the Tokarev. He examines the barrel again, even though he already knows what he will find: eight chambers, seven empty. One round. 

* * * 

“A toast to the revolution!” exclaims Trotskyist, raising his glass. As Maoist, Titoist, Stalinist, Castroist, and Fully Automated Luxury Communist raise their glasses in turn, Commie is left with no choice but to sheepishly bring his up to the group as well. They clink together victoriously. 

The seven sit at a round table, in the old tavern that lay in the town beyond the ruined city. Commie looks at their faces; FALC is perhaps the drunkest of all, which is no surprise considering that he murdered his own brother in cold blood earlier that day. Turns out authoritarian communism wasn’t too friendly to the gays. Stalinist still has dried blood on his face. Maoist is examining his finely manicured nails, mouth flattening into a dissatisfied line once he spots the crusted blood and dirt underneath them. 

Commie stares down into his glass. Eight drinks later and he still isn’t feeling any different - if anything, the churning darkness in his gut only seems to have intensified as the night has gone on. 

Titoist is saying something to Castroist, but Commie isn’t listening. Apparently it was funny, as Castroist soon lets out a loud, boisterous peel of laughter that echoes through the near-empty room. The table is a blur of faces, spinning around and around, their voices blending together into one dense buzz of commotion. It feels like a mosquito nestled inside Commie’s ear; he responds by tilting his head back and letting the vodka drip down his throat. 

Time passes, and it feels like either an infinite stretch of void or only a few heartbeats simultaneously. Commie can’t tell if it’s been four hours or twenty minutes, but he feels sick to his stomach. A voice, soft at the edge of his consciousness - then, a rough shake to his shoulder, rousing him from his stupor - 

“Commie? You there, comrade?” comes Titoist’s voice. 

“He’s totally wasted, dude,” slurs FALC, sounding on the verge of complete incomprehensibility. 

Commie swallows thickly. “I...I think I need to freshen up in restroom.” He stands up so abruptly that his chair topples over; he pays it no mind, already rushing out of the room and into a hallway. He hears the others’ voices calling after him, which he ignores. 

He throws open the door to the men’s bathroom - unoccupied, thankfully - and stumbles over to the mirror. 

He looks like shit. Despite his freshly washed coat, ironed to perfection, and his fluffled and tailored ushanka adorned with a shining red star, the weariness in his face is unmistakable. The bags under his eyes emphasize the dark circles therein. His lips are chapped and bleeding from being picked at. He looks into his own eyes, those rings of dull crimson. He looks terrified. 

He thinks about this place - this bathroom, how similar it looks to the one at the airport. Not like that was much of a surprise. Bathrooms were all the same. 

Regardless, the connection in his drink-addled mind has already been made. He looks back into the mirror and remembers Ancom - oh, Ancom. Ancom standing up on the tips of their toes to scrub the blood from their hoodie. Ancom and their messy brown hair, Ancom and their rusted metal bat and scuffed-up combat boots. The bat is still in his car, he remembers, suddenly. He never gave it back to them. 

His heart aches. He moves away from the mirror, backing up until his back hits the wall. 

The Tokarev is back in his hand before he even realizes it. He sits down, slowly. 

He spins the barrel, letting the  _ click click click  _ echo through the empty restroom. 

Commie doesn’t believe in God. He knows religion was the opium of the masses, and that his true faith lay simply in the fulfillment of hard work and class struggle. But he does believe in simple chance. 

One in eight. If the bullet came through, then perhaps it was fated that he joined the anarchist in death. Perhaps it was what he deserved. He thought of Ancap, and Posadist, and Anprim, and Anmon, and the cries of the dying anarchists as he watched them burn to death. His heart hurt. Was it worth it? Would it be worth it even if he lived? 

He spins the chambers one last time, and holds the gun to his temple. The barrel still burned hot into his skin - perhaps he was imagining it. His hands were shaking. 

“I love you, Ancom. Forgive me.” 

Back at the table, Stalinist drops his glass in surprise as the sound of a gunshot breaks the heavy silence. 


End file.
